


Seventeen

by Elmbird



Series: How Different We Were at Seventeen [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Feelings, First Kiss, M/M, POV Derek, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:53:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27736426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elmbird/pseuds/Elmbird
Summary: Scent. Derek has always had a heightened sense of smell, even for one of his kind. His mother taught him to use it, to respect it as a gift. He wonders if anyone’s scent had washed over her like Stiles’ washes over him. Would she still had called it a gift?Stiles' scent had thrown Derek off in the beginning, it had been an easy excuse not to trust him. Like any teenager he was steeped in hormones, budding desires, both basic and complex curiosities. Derek hadn’t like it, the way Stiles scent reached out past all the other teenagers he had come to surround himself with, and pushed itself past his periphery to center, making him more aware of the teenager than he should have been… should be…
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: How Different We Were at Seventeen [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2133156
Comments: 32
Kudos: 499





	1. The Scent of Salt and Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone.
> 
> So, I'm a little late to the party, just stared watching Teen Wolf. I'm half way into Season four, but for the sake of this story I'm only taking into account the happening up to the end of Season three. 
> 
> There is mention of Kate's manipulation of Derek, and his growing interest in Stiles, who is underage. For those reasons I'm rating this explicit. 
> 
> This is my first time writing a fic for this show. Feedback is always welcomed and appreciated. Let me know what you think.

Scent. Derek has always had a heightened sense of smell, even for one of his kind. His mother taught him to use it, to respect it, that it is a gift. He wonders if anyone’s scent had washed over her like Stiles’ washes over him. Would she still had called it a gift?

Aroma is a narrative, more complex than the simplification of polarizing bad or good. Frustration, desire, and anger, like all emotions have multiple notes within themselves that ebb and flow. The scent of emotion is rarely stationary, not something to hold still. Even red hot rage seethes, coming off in waves as it builds on itself. Mounting high. 

It had only taken the first prolonged interaction with Stiles for Derek to realize that one of the many irritating things about the kid was the way he smelled, the way his scent pitched forward, slightly stronger than the average teenager, somehow easier for Derek to pick up on, overpowering even a lovesick Scott, or Erica when she had been feisty and so sure of herself, newly turned. 

Barely a year ago Stiles had ducked into the passenger seat of his father’s police cruiser, that was when Derek had first noticed it, the small space filled with the scent of righteous youth, and unwavering curiosity. The kind of curiosity that could get you killed, that hadn’t yet been damped by harsh reality. The world of werewolves still in the realm of comic book cool, a novelty to the sixteen year old.

Three months ago Stiles nearly died. Allison, did. Derek knows all too well that youth doesn’t keep you safe or your hands clean. There are six, almost seven years between him and Stiles in countable age, but sometimes age isn’t a number. It’s an experience. Once, Derek was sixteen, and then he wasn’t. His youth, his remaining innocents burned up in the fire. 

Afternoon sunlight washes in through the tall windows of the loft, showing where dust has settled, which parts of the sprawling space gets used the most, and which corners lay forgotten. Stiles’ mouth moves, forming words that run together under his breath as he reads from one of Derek’s antiquebooks on creatures from the woods of Norway. He is slouching on the blue couch, laptop within reach on the cushion next to him. Derek sits in the chair across from him, turning pages in the book he is not really reading. 

Stiles coming over to the loft on the afternoons Scott has to work, or is busy with Kira, became a regular occurrence after the Nogitsune. There is a quietness about him now, something - somber, left in the cracks created by the void. Derek recognizes those cracks, he has his own. His cracks made by Paige, the fire, and Kate. Stiles and him are different though, his cracks keep him from being whole, where Stiles’ have worked into who he is, like his mother’s death must have Derek imagines. Her passing creating definition. Defining Stiles’ unwavering sense of responsibility for his father.

Derek can’t forget Jennifer, partially because of what she represented, his inability to choose wisely, but mostly because it exposed Stiles. He cares with his whole heart, but is smart about it in a way Derek hasn’t been. Derek’s caring is sharp and defensive, something he is working on. 

In the beginning Stiles' scent had thrown Derek off. It had been an easy excuse not to trust him. Like any sixteen year old he was steeped in hormones, budding desires, both basic and complex curiosities. Derek hadn’t like it, the way Stiles scent reached out past all the other teenagers he had come to surround himself with, and pushed itself past his periphery to center, making him more aware of the teenager than he should have been… should be…

Desire is waking in him. Like a flower bud, it is held tight, and close to its branch after a harsh and bleak winter. It is in a werewolf’s nature to pair off, but then so much of what Derek has done has gone against his nature, guided by a lack of trust in himself and for others. The ground beneath his feet still scorched.

When Chris Argent had talked about Stiles, about the possibility of having to kill him, Derek had held himself still, body turning to stone against an undercurrent of emotion. If it was him, he couldn’t do it. Not Stiles. That is what his unmoving body had screamed. _Not Stiles._ Jaw clenched tight, he was thankful for the wall separating Argent and him while they had been in lock-up. Keeping him from showing his own truth to anyone but himself.

_Have you ever heard of the Berserkers?_

_…the human side doesn’t last long…_

_Eventually, I had to tell the family that their son was gone…_

_…_

_…_

_…_

_… Would you feel any remorse putting Stiles down?_

Derek had heard the depth of emotion in his own voice, even if Chris hadn’t, too lost in his recounting of the boy turned monster he had put down. 

Stiles’ choice for king had been Derek. On the Chest board. His life is marred by failures that tastes sour if he dwells on them, but on Stiles’ board he had been a king.

In response to the suggestion that Stiles could be the Nogitsune with disbelief Derek had called him; skinny and defenseless. Holding onto his first impression, using it as a barrier. He knows better now. His mother would have called Stiles, true of heart. She would have liked him in her own serious, but kind way. Steadfast. She had been, steadfast. So is Stiles. To save himself from his own emerging feelings Derek had tried to make Stiles small, he has done so more times than he cares to admit. Showing a weakness unbecoming to an alpha. It’s for the best that he is no longer one.

Overeager with limbs that will someday take him into manhood, but for the time being, at barley seventeen, seem to be beyond his control, just like his mouth a fair share of the time, Stiles pulls an orange out of his backpack. He aggressively peels it, like the citrus fruit did something to insult him, thumbs digging in, breaking flesh.

Derek rolls his eyes, and takes a deep breath, inhaling the small droplets of orange aroma spritzed into the air that he tracks with his eyes as the afternoon light illuminates them.

The entire room smells of Stiles and his orange.

He watches with a tight jaw as Stiles discards pieces of the peel onto the coffee table that separates the two of them. Stiles is not so lost in the large leather bound book resting in his lap that he doesn’t catch on to Derek’s hard stare.

Around his first bite he asks, “Oh- hey, did you want an one?” One hand goes to root around in his backpack on the floor by his feet.

“No.” Derek answers after dropping his eyes back to his book, but before Stiles can produce another orange from the depths of his bag.

“Sure thing, sourwolf.” There is more familiarity behind his words than bite as he leans back into the couch.

Derek gives a put upon sigh, and shakes his head,“You’re throwing that peel away before you leave.”

“Consider it thrown away.” 

Derek seriously doubts that. He shoots him a look. Dark eyes having caught the late afternoon light turn amber, and stare back at him. He can’t forget how dull those eyes had seemed even a month ago, like the void still had him. They hold eye contact for a beat too long. It’s not the first time. Stiles has never been afraid to look him in the eyes, but these lingering looks between them are adding up, becoming something different.

An undercurrent of doubt fills the room accompanied by a pang of want. The scent of arousal is there too, pulling at Derek, string something that has lain dormant in him. Hormones and pheromones on a low buzz hang in the air. His subconscious suggests thoughts he is not fully willing to think. Bodies moving together in an abstract, a half formed thought that he won’t let run away to become more.

Stiles drops his eyes first, licks his bottom lip. Derek tracks the movement of his tongue. He thinks he shouldn’t, but he does, making his jaw work in unvoiced frustration. He goes back his book, it’s nothing more than a prop, an excuse fortaking up this space and time with Stiles. A month ago he would have lied to himself, believed that this book he had read before needed rereading.

Aware of the insult that his lack of trust inspired in Stiles, Derek had worn it like a shield. It hadn’t stopped the note of attraction Derek had smell coming off of him every time they met up. Attraction and frustration mixed with irritation all bottled up in the age of sixteen. At most Derek had scoffed at it. All sixteen year olds where hormone ridden. The scent had hung in the air, ebbed and flowed. Had flown strong at the police station when Derek had kept Issac at bay on his first full moon, then got lost in the waters of the pool, but resurfaced by their next meeting.

Stiles isn’t sixteen anymore. The layer of uncertainty that his scent of attraction carried is gone. Derek imagines it comes from him fully embracing his interest in men as more than a passing curiosity. It makes; _skinny, defenseless_ Stiles seem dangerous in a way Derek hadn’t and still ins’t prepared for.

Erica, during one of their early training sessions had kissed him, and for a second Derek had kissed her back, a knee jerk reaction taught to him by Kate. _When someone kisses you, you kiss them back, sweetie…_

 _Kate,_ had been everything Paige wasn’t. She had been an adult, and Derek too much of a child to understand that predators come in all shapes. That the ones with womanly curves can make heartbroken teenage boys think they want them, need them. Her demanding presence had overshadowed his grief for Paige.

The, _I’m not afraid of you,_ from Stiles lips had been like Paige’s determined reach for the basketball in the hallway at school. In the back of the cop car Derek had been too emotionally shut down to realize the similarity. 

Stiles almost died. Paige did.

The sound of a ringing cellphone cuts Derek’s thoughts short and startles Stiles. He gives a hard jerk out of his slouching position, tosses the book to the side, lunges forward to reaches for his phone on the metal coffee table. Stiles’ Jeep has been in the shop for the better part of a week, kept there by a hard to find part. The call is probably from the mechanic. Derek and Scott have taken turns chauffeur him around. Give it another day and Derek will personally track down the part himself.

Stiles falters, eyeing the screen. He answers with a level of familiarity that draws Derek’s attention fully back to the room. The worried edge of his voice makes the excuse of eavesdropping easy.

“Hey there, Parrish -- yeah, I can talk.” Stiles glances up at Derek. He makes like he is going to stand only to get half way up and the drop back down. His heartbeat gives a strong kick before the slow steady climb to a thundering pace.

_The first thing you need to know is your dad is in good hands, we’ve got him over at Beacon Memorial. So, don’t you worry._

Fear. The smell of fear floods the room.

 _The bullet went clean through…_

Stiles would go to the ends of the earth for his father. Bone-deep fear matched by done-deep determination had rolled off of him, the salt of his tears adding flavor to the truth of what Jennifer was, what she had done, who she had took. Scott might have been the one talking, pleading for Derek to believe the two of them, but it had been Stiles who had wordlessly reached him. The smell of salt more powerful than mistletoe.


	2. Bitter-Sweet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, another chapter! It's a short one, but hopefully there is enough there for it to hold its own. Thanks to all you wonderful folks for taking the time to read this. I'm happy to hear what you think, if you feel like commenting.

The florescent light over head pulses out a faint flicker. Derek closes his eyes to it and focuses on his own breathing. Within the walls of the hospital there is more sensory stimulation than he typically likes; sight, smell, sound, touch, and taste are all being pulled at. Sitting still, and waiting makes them harder to ignore, they pile up on each other, all eager for his attention.

The waiting room in the surgical wing of Beacon Memorial is half full, no more than eight people, including Stiles and himself, sit scattered around the sterile room. The seafoam green color chosen for the walls and chairs washes out under the lighting, making the room look lifeless. 

Earlier there had been a few officers from the police station sitting and waiting with them, but they got called way. 

Parrish had been the one to explain, waited to do it in person, once Stiles had arrived at the hospital. The Sheriff had been reporting to a break-in at a construction sight. Allen Family Builders, Derek has seen signs around Beacon Hills for them. A family business where recently one of three brothers had gotten pushed out by the other two. The guy, something Allen, was too drunk for the arresting officer to get much out of him, other than he didn’t mean to shoot the Sheriff. The general thinking is his intention was to kill one or both his brothers. 

Intentions rarely matters, specially in the face of outcome. Derek’s life is proof of that, but if asked what his intentions are with Stiles, he wouldn’t have an answer. The outcome could be anything. The lack of control makes him feel as restless as full moons did when he was younger, and still in need of guidance to make it through them. 

“My mom died here.”

Having settled into silence for the last hour Derek is jolted by Stiles’ words. Eyes flashing open he turns to look at the teenager sitting next to him. His eyebrows pull together, contemplating whether that statement needs a response.

“ -- not here, here.” Stiles makes a half hearted gesture at the floor. His voice is strained, falling quieter than usual, “I- I - can’t remember what room was she was in. It could have been like, 213, or 319. Maybe.” There is a world of emotion in his darks eyes, heart on his sleeve.

Derek gives a slow nod, eyes not leaving Stiles. “How long was she here for?” He asks.

“A couple months, I think. I don’t know I was - like, eight. It all kind of blurred together. And, it’s not like my dad and I like to reminisce about it. So, yeah. I don’t actually know.” Pain shows on his features before he can turn away. He picks at the inseam on the leg of his jeans without watching him long fingers. 

Touch. The times Derek has touched others has been damning. His fingers flex all the same, and his jaw clenches at his own inability. He could cover Stiles’ hand with his own, but he doesn’t. For a second he thinks of Boyd. The memory is too painful, even the memory of Stiles' hand on his shoulder. Nostrils flaring, Derek lets out a deep breath through his nose. Instead he lets his body remain partially turned in his chair waiting for Stiles to start talking again. He knows it won’t belong, he can feel him thinking.

“It helped that Scott’s mom worked here. I could think of it as the place were Scott’s mom worked, and not where mine died.” His voice works around the roughness of emotion, he half turns back towards Derek, eye flickering over him, then drop to the floor. 

Derek answers knowing instantly where Stiles’ thoughts have gone, “Your dad is not going to died here, Stiles.” It comes out impatient, he doesn’t want to given any room to entertain the idea that something else might happen.

Stiles cast his gaze back to Derek, the look is heavy, “Yeah, sure.” Then after a breath, just before he drops his gaze to the floor again, while his eyes are still locked with Derek’s he says much softer, “Thanks. For this.”

For a second warmth unspools giving relief to all of Derek’s senses, and then dissipates, almost just as quickly. He is left staring at Stiles’ profile for a second too long. The cusp of manhood is shown in his defined jaw line, the softness that was there, only a year ago, gone. When he finds his voice it sound dry to his own ears, “It’s nothing.”

When the Nogitsune had manipulated the group from Stiles’ bedroom back to Derek’s loft, looking to create strife, Argent had pulled a gun on Stiles. Something inside of Derek felt like it died in that moment, something he didn’t know was still living. He hadn’t called out at Argent like the Sheriff had, his breath had been taken from him. Gone.

He couldn’t imagine a world where there wasn’t Stiles. He is still not sure how to feel about that.

It’s another hour before Mrs. McCall comes into the waiting room. Stiles shoots up to his feet, but she gently touches his shoulder ushering him back down into his chair as she takes a seat in the empty chair on his other side from Derek.

“My dad - the surgery - you’ve got to tell me he is okay. He is okay, right?”

“Stiles, he is fine.” She sounds tired. Looks it too, more curly strands of hair than usual have escaped the hair clip at the back of her head, there is a crease between her brows, but she is wearing a smile, a tired one.

“Okay, great, but what does that mean? Cause, _fine_ is relative and pretty nondescript.” The words tumble out his mouth as he shifts nervously in his chair, hands rubbing at his thighs.

“Believe it or not this was an ideal surgery. The bullet had a clean exit, it made everything very easy for the surgeon to take care of. At this time your dad’s doctors aren’t worried about complication.” Stiles opens his mouth to say something, but Melissa holds up her hands telling him to let her continue. He sputters to a stop nodding for her to go ahead. The self-control that it takes for him not to interrupt is tangible, Derek can feel it. “You can head in to see him for yourself, but I don’t think he’d be very happy if I let you stay here over night. ”

“Hold on. You’re joking, right? I’m not just going to leave him.” He scoffs out, quick to protest.

“Stiles, there is nothing you can do for your dad. He is going to be out cold until tomorrow. He would want you to go home and get some rest. Trust me.” She looks past him to Derek, she cuts him off before he can object, voice commanding, equal parts mother and nurse, giving no room to argue, the hospital is her turf, “You’ll take him home, right?”

Derek nods, “Yeah.” Eyes matching Mrs. McCall’s in seriousness. _You’ll take him home … you’ll stay with him…._ It’s unspoken. He is saying yes to both, and she nods in understanding. Gratitude lifts her heavy brow and softens her eyes. Scott has gone camping with Kira and her family for the weekend, they left after school let out. It goes without saying, if that wasn’t the case Mrs. McCall wouldn’t be turning to Derek for help. 

“Wait, the two of you can’t team up. ” Stiles spits out while casting a look of betrayal over his shoulder to Derek. “Seriously. It’s totally unfair.” He adds before turning back to Mrs. McCall. 

“If your dad was in the kind of condition where I thought you needed to be here over night I would be the first to tell you. I wouldn’t send you away if I thought there was any - risk.” Her voices has softened, there is an extra layer of depth to it, something unsaid passes through her tone. Derek think she is seeing both the Stiles of seventeen and his younger self, the one of eight who waited while his mother was dying. It’s both bitter and sweet. Bitter-sweet. Sharp like a knife. He can feel it go through Stiles’ heart.

It passes through Stiles' heart, to his. Taking he breath away. 


	3. How to Count Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone enjoyed my little adventure in writing for this pairing. Not sure if I'll write more for them, but it was fun all the same. Feedback is always welcomed.

The elevator gives a a hard shake, wheels groan as the ancient thing comes to life, like it is waking from the dead. Derek usually takes the stairs up to his loft, so does Stiles, but tonight the teenager stumbled into what really could classify as a deathtrap, and Derek followed. There is a lot about the building Derek lives in that wouldn’t pass an inspection, it helps to keep people away, except for those select few. He is not sure what would keep Stiles away from him, if there is anything. Maybe age, someday Stiles might out grow him. The thought is new, Derek doesn’t want to dwell on. So, he doesn’t, pushing it away instead. 

In the rush to get to the hospital Stiles left his house keys somewhere in the loft. Hopefully. If the keys aren’t there they could be anywhere; the high school, back at the hospital, one of two parking lots. The miss-placed keys could be for the best, Derek isn’t sure home is where Stiles needs to be, not after today. Derek can feel the teenager's mind spinning, his scent is anxious, uneasy, like a storm on the horizon that hasn’t yet broke.

Derek leans against the elevator wall with Stiles, turns his head to the side, making no attempt to hide the measuring look he gives, taking him in. Stiles keeps making small movements like an animal in too small of a cage, the cage is his body, and it can’t hold his emotions. His breathing is uneasy, too rushed, too shallow. 

The elevator groans to a halt on the third floor, the button must have anciently gotten hit. The seconds tick by while the door rolls open and closed. Derek’s eyes never leave Stiles. His own emotions twisting, his breath coming in shallow waves, unintentionally alining with Stiles’s breathing.

Intentions rarely matters, specially in the face of outcome, still Derek’s hand is reaching out before he realizes it, his movement so rarely beyond his own self-imposed discipline. The realization draws a moment of hesitation where his hand holds in the air before continuing. Derek’s fingers brush against the front of Stiles’ shoulder, thumb involuntary touching the collarbone peeking out from the dark blue cotton t-shirt as he takes the backpack that hangs off his one shoulder.

When it had been just Derek and Paige, when no one else had been around to see, he would carry her backpack for her. Young and in love, it had been easy to do.

Stiles’ head lulls to the side as he lets Derek take his bag from him. Those dark eyes that can look like amber in the brightest light, now look like dark endless pool to get lost in. Stiles rapidly blinks, to clear the tears forming in them, “I’m alright.” He says, straightening up, suddenly becoming more aware of himself, more aware of the concerned look that Derek is giving him.

“You don’t have to be.” It’s the truth.

He drops his eyes with a nod, stares hard at the floor before answering, “Yeah, Derek. I do.”

The answer is cutting, making Derek clench his teeth and draw in a deep breath through his nose, like he is trying to breath through Stiles pain for him. There isn’t time to say more. Derek finds himself trailing Stiles out of the elevator, through the barley open door that the teenager forced past. The backpack in hand sways with his long strides. Stiles is fast, a human with nimble limbs. 

Change from the vending machine at the hospital jingles together in one pocket of Stiles’ jeans as he bounces on the balls on his feet, waiting for Derek to unlock the heavy metal door and slide it open. Derek give an irritated jerk of his head as Stiles maneuvers past him into the loft. He does it in the same way he had pushed out of the barely open elevator. 

The lamp at the far end of the couch gets turned on by Stiles, faint glow spreading over the large room, light thinning the farther it has to reach. Hanging back in the darkness of the entryway Derek watches with growing unease as Stiles goes rummaging round the blue couch, pushing cushions to the side and then pulling them up. After a moment he set the backpack on the top stair, then makes his way down to help.

The slight smell of orange lingering in the room is quickly being lost, the scent of irritation steeped in angry, and _guilt_ over powers it. Guilt is more than in Stiles scent, it is in the sharp way he goes about looking for his keys, the way he keeps his eyes down and won’t look at Derek, who has clearly stopped mid-approach to openly stare at him.

A cushion tumbles to the floor. With caution Derek takes the last few steps over to Stiles and comes to stand by the arm of the couch where he has dropped to his knees to look underneath, “ _Stiles?_ ”

Stiles give a quick glance up to Derek before standing. The look in his eyes is both vulnerable and defiant, “What kind of shit is that anyways? _I don’t have to be okay?_ I do, I’m not the one who died, remember. Allison did. And - And - my dad - the way he worries about me is taking years off his life.”

His words are stronger than Derek was expecting, more forceful. Derek tips his head back to look at him from under furrowed brows. The sour smell of guilt hangs in the air, filling the space between them in layers, there are clearly defined notes to this scent of guilt. Derek draws his jaw tight, “No. That’s not it. There is something else.” He states, with a measuring looking.

With eyes wide Stiles takes a step back, Derek’s words clearly feeling like some sort of a punch. Arms hang heavy at his side as he shift the from foot to foot. It takes a second, but Stiles is never without words for long, “When I was in the room with my dad all I could think about were the lies I told him. I kept lying to him, even when he asked me if I was lying, even when I knew I was loosing his trust. My nose should be out to here!” He throws his hands out in an aggravated gesture, “And, all for what? To keep him safe? None of it mattered. He is still laying in a hospital bed.”

“ _Stiles_.” It’s just his name coming roughly through Derek’s barley parted lips, but Stiles understands. Derek can see it in his eyes. He knows that Derek knows there is more to what is upsetting him, that it goes deeper. Stiles stumbles backwards the last couple steps until he is leaning on the same wall as the couch.

Stiles gives a short laughs, it’s a broken thing, wrenched out of him. Tears having built back up in his eyes, threaten to spill over. He takes a breath and shakes his head in surrender. When he speak his voice is quiet,“The first real lie I told to him, and not like a little kid type lie, but a real lie… was about mom." He pauses, Derek nods for him to continue.

“I - um- I told him that she had a good day. Good days were the days when she remembered who she was and who we were.” His shoulders drag down, body trying to sink into the wall behind him.

“Okay?” Derek’s eyebrows raise in a furrow, questioning, he steps forward putting himself in Stiles’ space in a way he usually tries to avoid. The soundwaves of his heartbeat wash over Derek. The rhythm is pain. 

Stiles’ head lulls back against the wall so he can look up into Derek’s eyes from his sunken position, “She wasn’t awake a lot at the end, but she came to this one afternoon when it was just me there. Scott’s mom had pushed a chair right up beside her bed so I could sit with her. I was so excited she was awake, I had days worth of stupid kid’s stuff to tell her about, the interworking of my second grade social life, tests, and grades, and shit.” He pauses to scrub at a tear that has run down his cheek with the heal of his palm, and let out a shaky breath before continuing,“She kept saying how nice it was for me to be keeping her company, but after like, an hour I realized she had this confused look on her face. She finally asked me if my parents knew that I had wondered off.” Stiles licks his bottom lip, gives a half hearted shrug. He has more to say, Derek can see him struggling for the words. “It was the last time she woke up. She died a week later. My dad thinks she got one last good day with me because I left out the part about her having no clue who I was. I lied. And it doesn’t matter why I did it.”

The story is an answer to a lot more than just the guilt and pain Derek has been smelling as it has been rolling off of Stiles in waves. It’s a moment in time, one choice that has ingrained itself into the fabric of who he is. Derek can’t save Stiles from the choice he made as child, like Derek can’t save himself for his own choices. They’ve both been living their decisions, but what about forgiveness? The self-hatred that Derek feels for himself has made him recoil at the idea of forgiveness. Too raw an emotion. Hating himself, somehow became easier. Only, he does’t want the same fate for Stiles. 

“Everybody lies, Stiles. No one knows the true weight of their lie until after they’ve told it. You were just a kid. Don’t live under a choice you made over half a lifetime ago.” His words are a sacrifices. For now, he turns a blind eye to what they mean for himself.

Stiles holds Derek’s eyes for a breath before looking away, wipes at his cheek again while muttering, “Wow, sage advise from Derek Hale.” He says it with little to no punch behind the words. The exhaustion of the day seeping in to wash the guilt-ridden scent away. 

“The last time I saw my mother, I was leaving for school with Laura. She was standing on the front porch. The door to the house had been left open because the morning was warm. I remember her hair was down, and she had a cup of tea in her hands.” The memory feels so real he could touch it, his fingers flex. Derek drops his stony gaze to the floor, taking a moment. There is no answer for why he told Stiles that, not one that he can grasp right now. His heckles should raise as his own indiscretion, or there should be a flood of pain, but all he can think about is when she found him after Paige. Her steady warmth. Her strength. 

“Do you miss her?” Quicker than Derek can answer, Stiles makes a tired noise of frustration with himself, “ _Gah_ \- that was a dumb question. Look, I’m sorry.” He says, eyes pleading truthful innocence as he straights back up.

“I do. I miss how it use to be. I miss my family. Expect for Peter.” Derek answers, eyes fully back on Stiles. 

“No one, who knows Peter is ever going to miss the guy.” Stiles says without much heat, more like it is a simple fact that doesn’t need a lot of attention, his mind already onto the the next thought.“Any other words of wisdom?” There is genuine curiosity behind the question, his gaze soft, hopeful. It’s a kind of hopeful that makes him look seventeen. Eager despite the late hour, and the long day. 

The wall behind Stiles looks less like a brace to keep him from toppling, posture loosening. Derek remembers the first time he had Stiles with his back up against a wall. The inexplicable flash of desire that he all too quickly ignored. He had looked at Stiles' mouth, eyes held there by its shape for a moment too long. Now, in this moment Stiles' lips are slightly part, drawing in deep even breathes. When Derek brings his eyes back up Stiles’ eyes are waiting for his. Without words he tells Derek, _I see you looking, and I’m not going to pretend I don’t_. It’s in the slight shift in posture, they way his lips part a little bit more, the flush in his cheeks.

He wants to tell Stiles, he won’t be seventeen forever. Which means too many things. And, maybe those words aren’t for Stiles, but more for himself. No Seventeen year old can really understand how delicate that age is, not even one as smart as Stiles. 

But, Derek also can’t lie, not to Stiles, or to himself, not after everything. So he says, “This isn’t nothing, you and I. But, it can’t be something right now, Stiles. Someday, though. When the time is right.”

Stiles is pushing off the wall with his shoulder, searching eyes never leaving Derek’s. His mouth is working, but no words come out, there are probably too many thoughts, questions, and words competing to be the first to be said. The space between them disappears as Derek ducks his head, and press his lips to Stiles’ stilling their wordless movement. It’s the easiest answer to give, proof of what his words mean. Because Stiles’ always needs proof, and Derek won’t - can’t leave him empty handed. It’s a breath taking promise, one equally needing to be given and received. 

When he tries to pull away Stiles keeps him there by kissing him back, the press of his mouth to Derek’s a little more demanding. Those nimble hands come to rest on his chest, fingertips touching first before laying palms down. Derek lets their mouths slot together, making more of the kiss for a handful of heartbeats longer. 

Derek’s hands come up, fingertips touching at Stiles’s cheeks, thumbs brush his bottom lip as he gentle pulls away. There is a moment where their noses brush and foreheads touch.

The scent in the air is new, one Derek hasn’t smelled off of Stiles before, a certain kind of unabashed hope mixed with pheromones. The scent is wrapped up in the beat of their hearts. And maybe that’s the answer, to let Stiles lead. He leads with his heart, always finding his way. And, Derek is tired of fighting loosing battles. Tired of loosing to himself, and his own stupidity that he has disguised as so many other things. 

Derek keeps his hands cupping Stiles face, pulls back just enough to look into his dark eyes, warm and bright, and still slightly surprised. 

Stiles licks his bottom lip after giving a shaky exhale, “ _Okay_.” There is a layer of meaning and understanding behind the word. Stiles isn’t sixteen anymore, the tackless pushing and prying he would have done a year ago he has out grown for the most part. Still, one of the hands that Stiles has on Derek’s chest fists into the material of his shirt, he gives a demanding tug. “But if this has to do with my age, just do me a favor, and remember I won’t be Seventeen forever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	4. Seventeen and a Half: Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya,
> 
> Turns out I’m a sucker for writing this story, and wasn’t ready to end it. I kicked around the idea of turning it into a series, but I decided adding chapters vs posting it separately would work best.

The night sky is the darkest blue, the hue where stars begin to show themselves. The parking lot behind the police station has an unobscured view of the sky, no buildings in this part of Beacon Hills rise high enough to block it. Derek and Stiles have been sitting in the Jeep watching the stars come out, neither wanting to look at the other. This is their first fight of this kind. A fight that can’t be pacified by the Stiles’ sarcasm or Derek’s short angry responses. 

An awkward silence had settle inside of the Jeep, mostly it is Derek’s fault, and he is all too well aware of it. “I’m not angry at you.” He says through clenched teeth, trying to ignore the smell of copper, of blood, the fresh split on Stiles’ lip, and what it makes him feel.

“Yeah, are you sure about that? Cause, you kind of seem like you are.” Stiles’ response isn’t as sharp as it could be, it’s more quiet, more resentful, anger resting below the surface. He keeps his eyes towards the stars missing the quick look Derek shoots at him.

In the heat of the moment Derek’s words had been sharp, bitten off with dropped fangs, delivered with reds eyes, rumbled out on the crashing wave of a growl. _What were you thinking?_ Accusations of thoughtless actions had followed. He knows better though, Stiles’ actions are never without thought. Even the ones that put him in danger, like tonight. The safety of his friends worth drawing the attention of a feral omega away from them and towards himself. Armed only with a fire extinguisher, and the knowledge that time was on his side, Derek hadn’t been far behind.

Checks and balances, Stiles would give his life if it meant protecting his - _pack_. In his mind their lives in exchange for his own an equal trade. Derek’s mother once told him, _humans have packs too, be careful not to forget that._

The undercurrent of Stiles’ anger is warming up. Rising to the surface it has become the strongest scent in the car. One hand impatiently taps out a rhythm on the steering wheel, filling the space Derek’s silence has left. “I would get out, but this is my car.” Stiles says.

It is an invitation for Derek to leave. Storming off would be the easiest thing to do, an act of self-preservation. A choice that would keep him in the cage of his making, one that he has become all too comfortable with.

This is new, this is all so new. The two of them on the cusp of a relationship. Their first kiss, their only kiss, having happened only a few months ago. What has developed between Stiles and him, as much as Derek can now see it was always going to grow to be - something, he is still unsure how to inhabit that something. Is still fighting himself, fighting to let go. Haunted by his own past. Wanting to do better for Stiles, but he can’t do better for him if he hasn’t figured out how to do better for himself. The concept of wholeness resting within. Derek thinks he is ready to let go of his guilt, if it would only let go of him in exchange.

Since the age of sixteen anger was interchangeable with self-preservation and control, it’s not anymore, not with Stiles, and it can’t be with himself either. For eight years it served as an anchor. An anchor he fashioned out of guilt, and shame, and loss. If Derek wants to live, really live, he can’t carry it around anymore, “Alright, I am angry.” He admits in a huff after turning to look at Stiles, eyes darting to the teenager’s lower lip where the cut stands out, before rising up to meet defiant dark eyes. “But, not at you.” He finishes.

Forgetting, Stiles licks his lips only to wince, brows furrowing. It takes him second to answer, for the wince of pain to fade. “That’s not an excuse. I may be the squishy human, but I’m capable. Don’t treat me like I’m not. I’m not some dumb sidekick - _kid_. Okay?”

There it is, the truth of Stiles’ anger, he says it without saying the actual words. The struggle of every teenager, desperate to be taken more seriously than they think their age allows them to be. Eighteen is a magic number to anyone who is younger.

Less stern, Derek says, “I never said you were.” 

The scoff Stiles gives in response makes it evident that Derek’s statement didn’t smooth over the frustration that has bubbled up inside of him. “I’m seventeen and a half, today. Which means I’m officially closer to my eighteenth birthday than I am to my seventeenth birthday. Just so you know.” Trying to down play the importance that his words carry, he makes a vague gesture with one hand. Maybe he is afraid of what Derek would think, at least that is the feeling it leave Derek with. It's not hard to read between Stiles' lines. Not with the way he broadcasts his emotions.

Derek raises an eyebrow, “Okay?”

“So, I’d rather have spent the day eating half a birthday cake, or like six cupcakes, but duty called. I’m part of this and have been long before the nogitsune got hold of me. My age doesn’t matter to the freaky happenings of the supernatural.”

Stiles swallows around what Derek thinks are unsaid words, both his hands working on the steering wheel, grip tight. He has a pinched look on his face like he is deciding if he wants to say more. He probably will.

Quickly, Derek measures out his own words before speaking, “I know you think of Scott as your brother. That you were protecting him.” He offers his understanding of tonight’s events, hoping to smooths over the what he said earlier. Scott is part of Stiles’ pack, in a way they all are. He might be the only one who can’t see that. How lost they would all be without him. 

The bridge of Stiles’ nose wrinkles up as he makes an irritated face, “Oh my god, and I know you’re hung up on my age. So much so that you won’t even mention it.” Stiles fires off, like he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger of a loaded gun.

Stiles isn’t wrong, but he also isn’t right. Derek is hung up on who he was, what he had experienced at Stiles’ age. He is as old as Kate was when he was Stiles’ age, a parallel he has run into the ground with how many times he has thought it over. Kate’s intentions were cut from a different cloth, but then Derek’s intention was never for Paige to die, or any of his family.“I’m hung up on wanting to keep you safe, Stiles. Your safety matters to me. ” The words feel like undressing.

“ _Oh.”_ His response comes out quiet, almost breathless. In this moment, Stiles is the things he was claiming not to be only moments ago, young and innocent. Derek holds his gaze, watches as his eyebrows that raised in surprise now lower back down in understanding. The warm scent filling the Jeep is no longer from the heat of anger, it’s from the heat of realization blooming pink in Stiles’ cheeks.

Neither of them will win this battle if they fight each other, when really they are fighting themselves. Their own depth of emotions brought up by the mess of the day. Derek is ready to for a truce, he thinks Stiles is as well.

“Stiles, what do you want? Besides a half dozen cupcakes?” He tries for humor, Stiles’ language. Though, his tone is too heavy to reach the lightness needed, and not rough enough around the edges for it to be called sarcasm. Derek doesn’t want him to think he is anything but serious, it carries through in his tone. Tonight he will do, give whatever Stiles wants to mend this momentary rift. Logic tells Derek this fight won’t end what hasn’t even begun between them, but his thudding heartbeat drums out a different tune. Good and beautiful things are the easiest to loose. He lost Paige after all, and his mother.

 _A heart that lives outside one’s own body_. That is how his mother had described being in love. Derek’s heart sits beside him, Seventeen and half, careless with himself when the safety of others is concerned, steadfast, and brave. Stiles is the most dangerously Derek has lived in a long time.

Stiles’ eyes dart away to look back at the night sky through the windshield that has started to fog up. The time he takes to think over his answer is the time someone would take if they were only given one wish to come true. Carefully picking his words, searching for cracks and crevices in them as his eyes look from one star to the next. When he shifts in his seat to look back at Derek, he can’t stay still. His nerves working themselves out in the smallest of movements; fingertips drumming at the wheel, one leg bounces, heartbeat fast. “I want to go home with you tonight, Derek. To sleep in your bed, and _actually_ have you sleep in it with me.”

Derek draws in his surprise through a quiet breath. The leather of his jacket pulls tight over his shoulders as turns to look out the window, giving himself a moment to think.Two months ago, the night that Stiles’ father got shot, he had taken the teenager back to his loft. They had briefly kissed, without confusion of what that kiss meant, a promise of something more to come. Before the kiss Derek had told Stiles as much while with the same breath asking for time to figure things out. 

Later that night Derek had given Stiles the bed, and he had taken the couch. 

_I always thought that my first time in your bed would have you in it._

Sarcasm thinly veiled Stiles' hopeful truth.

Derek remembers that night well, how restless he had been. On the blue couch he had sat in the dark, legs spread wide, forearms resting on them, looking at his hands. He thought of all the things he had done with his hands, how they have served him as much as they led to his downfall. He use to think it didn’t matter if Kate had been the one who set the fire, the match that lit the flame was a ghost to his fingertips. For the first time he stopped being so sure of that belief. What purpose did the weight of his guilt serve? Did he know how live without it after all these years? He had never thought about letting that guilt go before then. When he had finally fallen asleep it had be to the sound of Stiles' sleep steady breathing drifting across the room, reminding him there was still life to live.

Derek turns back to Stiles, who has a self-loathing look on his face, put there by what Derek assumes is the feeling of having messed up in someway. “Look, Derek - it’s okay. Cupcakes - are great. Who doesn’t like cupcakes, right?” He says, tone dull, dark eyes dropping away with the shrug of his shoulders.

Derek asked Stiles what he wanted, he thinks the answer he got was more of a need than a want.Intimacy. Their relationship is already intimate in a way, it might not look like it to others, but no one gets to Derek like Stiles does. And Derek doesn't want to sacrifice Stiles for the pride of his pain, the anchor his anger has been, and all the events that have created the tall tale that he is finally starting to understand he is no longer interested in living up to. The cost finally becoming too great.

So he says, “Okay.”

And just as breathless as before, Stiles give him an, “ _Oh_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are cool, would love to know what folks think. As always thanks for reading!


	5. Seventeen and a Half: Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more little chapter added to the mix. A sincere thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read this. I'm always amazed when folks read what I write, makes me feel like I did something right.

_Oh. What, like, okay - okay?_

_Yes, Stiles._

Moonlight washes in through the tall windows of the loft, laying the windowpane pattern across the bed. The pattern makes its way onto Stiles, who sits on the edge of the bed, shadow cutting across his dark eyes, lips highlighted in the contrasting pale light. Through parted lips his breathing is shallow. Anticipation translates into a scent that has Derek wound up in his own way, quietly strung out. Though, he doesn’t show it. Tonight is an unknown, an edge to go over. Sharing a bed without having sex doesn’t make the act any less intimate, or revealing.

Stiles’ leg bounces, bare heel of his foot, padding out a rhythm of nerves. Under all the loose fitting layers he usually wears, are wide shoulders and lean muscles built from years of lacrosse practices. Derek’s build only has so much on the teenager, the black t-shirt he wears making it obvious. The t-shirt doesn’t fit as loosely as Derek had imagined it would when he had handed it to him to change into. The look of Stiles in his shirt had sparks a suggestive heat in Derek’s body, one that’s not cooling.

No excuses had to be given for Stiles to be here tonight. The Sheriff is on night duty and won’t be home until late tomorrow morning. There are more than twelve hours that stretch out before them, leading somewhere Derek thinks they both only have an abstract idea about. An abstract idea that is creating hesitation, both suddenly awkward in their own way. Derek isn’t use to his own awkwardness, steels himself against it with his usual cold demeanor, compared to Stiles, who seems at easy in his anxious movements, like they are somehow self- soothing.

Derek had thought about staying in his jeans and shirt, but laying besides Stiles while fully clothed would be wearing armor, showing a weakness born out of a fear he doesn’t want to feed. So, across the room from the bed with his back turned he strips down to his boxers with a carelessness that he hopes is convincing, the feeling of Stiles’ lingering look touching his skin until he turns around.

A heady scent blooms in the air, stoking the heat sparked in Derek’s body. 

With steps that fall evenly, more sure than Derek actually feels, he makes his way to the bed, cool air touching his skin where Stiles' gaze been moments before. Stiles looks up from studying his hands, neck cranes, head tipping far back to make eye contact with Derek. The silence that stretched out between them must finally gets to Stiles, words break from his mouth like water from a dam, they flood out in a rush, “Look, this is silly, I can just - go back home, or sleep on the couch. You don’t have to to this. It was just a - yeah, silly notion. Totally ridiculous of me. No harm, no foul.” He finishes, Adam apple bobbing as he swallows, one shoulder raises to try and further shrug off what this has mount too. 

It’s not silly, though. For all the awkwardness Stiles and him are currently wading through this isn’t silly or ridiculous. “ _Stiles_.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re on my side of the bed.” Derek states. 

After a moment of hesitation Stiles’ face animates in realization, “Oh!” he pushes himself farther onto the bed, feet coming off the floor as he scoots back, sheets bunching up in his wake. He stops nowhere near the other side, still mostly in the middle.

Derek raises an eyebrow expectantly.

“Yeah, I’m a middle of the road kind of guy.” He says apologetically while he moves back a couple more inches, making room for Derek to join him. Crips sheets rustle while they makes themselves comfortable with tight movements that bring forth muttered apologies when elbows touch and bare knees knock. The sensations of leg hair bruising against Derek’s own, new and delicate. Stiles' boxer suddenly seem like too little fabric, and Derek's own briefs scandalous. 

Under the covers it takes Stiles longer to settle than Derek. He can’t seem to decide if he wants his arms above or below the sheets. Laying on his back Derek watches him from the corner of his eye, holding his tongue as the teenager continues in a constant state of motion. After momentary stillness the teenager rolls onto his side, facing Derek with an expectant look.

"Yes?"

“Have you ever been with a guy before?” He asks, voice earnest.

Derek lets his head lull to the side, pillow touching his cheek, eyes meeting Stiles’,“We’re not having sex tonight, Stiles.”

“Pretty sure that wasn’t my question.” He shoots back, eyes quietly searching, trying to read Derek. Youth shows on his features, the shadows of the night making him seem younger. 

Derek knows that wasn’t his question. He takes a deep breath, lets it out in a sign,“No, I haven’t.”

“So, we’re going to be, each other’s first? I mean obviously not tonight, because no funny business. But, I get to be your first.” The corner of his mouth tugs up, the sheepish smile warming his dark eyes quickly pulls down into a wince, the cut on his bottom lip opening fresh.

Derek’s brows furrow as he focuses on the the cut, the desire it fills him with, the thing he tried to ignore before, a sense of responsibility. When he was sixteen he had taken responsibility for Paige, a mercy killing, that is not this. Stiles is right, in a way they are each other's firsts. Derek moves, muscles rolling, mind trailing behind his instincts, not fully aware of what he is doing. A wakeful dream. Stiles moves too, head turning on the pillow to look up at Derek, who has come to lean over him, propped up on one of his forearms.

The moment stretches out as acknowledgement passes between them through their locked eyes. Electric anticipation cracks in the air, raising the hairs on Dereks arms. He lets his head drop, hang heavily between his shoulders, bringing him close enough to Stiles that their noses brush. Stiles nods, a barely there movement that gives permission. 

Two heartbeats thud in time, pounding hard against ribcages. 

A wolf will clean another’s wound, lick it clean. Derek runs his tongue over the cut on Stiles’ lip, gentle and wet, tasting copper. The action is primal, earthy, honoring what he is. In this moment Derek is whole, there are no two sides of him, he is not divided between wolf or man. Derek licks again, lets his tongue gently travel the path of Stiles’ bottom lip, licking up to the top when he reaches the corner of his mouth. Uncaged, cut loose he is not the horror he imagined himself to be. He takes what is offered, savors it with respect. He becomes caught up in the deep-seated pleasure the act gives. Marrow soaking pleasure. This act the first of its kind. 

Focus narrowing, Derek takes in the way Stiles pants out shallow breathes through parted lips, the way those breathes brush, feathery light against his own wet mouth, the fabric of life passing between them.

On the next pass Derek lets his lips ghost against Stiles’ mouth, tongue drawing in on the last lap, turning it into a kiss. Stiles’ breath hitches, Derek raises his eyes, is met with dark orbs framed by dark lashes, Stiles’ pupils are blown out, all but gone. For Stiles this act is sexual, for Derek it has more facets than that, more paths to get lost going down, eyes gleam blue.

The bed feels like a boat out to sea, untethered it floats, not really part of anything, taking Stiles and him away from everything as their bodies sink farther into the mattress. Stiles’ fingertips slowly kneed at Derek’s shoulders, working their way up to touch at his neck and jaw.

Hand resting on his cheek, the dull smart of pain Derek pulls from Stiles is washed away in the heat of slow tentative kisses. Their lips hesitantly pressing together is a shocking contrast to Derek’s hot licks, chaste in comparison. Derek didn’t think there was still innocence in him, is surprised to find it, unearthed by this moment, pulled from the ashes.

Late when sleep comes to Derek it comes from the heat of Stiles’ body pressed next to his, reassuring and warm. Scent rich. 

Derek drinks his coffee while it is hot, much like alcohol, caffeine has no effect on werewolves. For him morning coffee is a ritual. He sits on the couch, and stares at the orange peal left on the coffee table by Stiles with less annoyed than he has felt before at finding one there. Oranges, a fruit that only recently he has started to keep around.

Last night their hands roamed, maybe farther than they should have, but then, those paths travelled by fingertips gave more sureness to what is between them. Little gasps had turned into moans as they moved against each other, mouths becoming eager to taste, kisses deep. In the morning Stiles wore the night like a triumph, like any seventeen year old would. The age old belief that physicality is the bridge that leads to manhood one that all young men believe, even one as smart as Stiles. He beamed a self- satisfied smile at Derek before leaving the loft. A smile Derek had returned, lightness having settled into his bones, body and mind finally without the weight of guilt after all theses year. Time and age. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I might be kicking around the idea for one last chapter. Give a shout out if you'd like one more. Also, feedback is always welcomed.


	6. Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To end it here or not to? That is the questions. There are some little bits that didn't make it in because they didn't match the flow of the story over all. So, if anything they might inhabit their own random last chapter, or be posted separately. Let me know what you think. 
> 
> Update *I went ahead and made this into a series. Those couple extra bit will be add as their own stand alone stories*
> 
> This chapter definitely makes use of the Explicit rating, but nothing is focused on enough to feel like it warrants being tagged. Or at least that's how I feel. If you feel differently feel free to say so. 
> 
> Again, Thanks for being awesome and reading this story!

Derek is woken by a noise he thinks must have been a scream that caught in Stiles’ throat, not by the arm flailing out and pushing against him now, nimble fingers working into his ribs. The mattress dips heavily with the shifting weight of the teenager rushing to push himself onto his forearms and off of his stomach. Fully alert Derek sits up in bed, rushing in his movement too, blankets pooling in his lap as he goes. Derek catches the panicked look in Stiles’ eyes as he pushes himself the rest of the way up and onto his knees to kneel in the middle of the bed. It’s the kind of panic where a person only see half of what is in front of them, half blinding, completely disorientating panic. 

Time is one of the things that is dialed into Derek’s senses. The lack of a clock anywhere in the loft something Stiles has pointed out with a handful of questions, trying to dig into the greater meaning of what time is to a werewolf. Derek knows this darkness that fills up the loft is a closer to the beginning of morning than the end of night. The sun will be rising be for long to signal the start of a new day. Clocks only measure time, they don’t tell about it or describe it.

Derek leans forward, “Stiles?” He can feel the concern pinching his brows together as he tries to catch the teenager’s eyes. The scent in the room is distress. It makes him anxious, setting him on edge. 

“Yeah, yeah -no- - I’m okay. It was - a- just - a…”Stiles trails off with a shaky breath, eyes darting around the dark room then down to his hands. He quickly counts his fingers, silently mouthing, _one, two, three, four…_ “It was just a dream.” He finishes after reaching ten. It is a statement that sounds more like a question with the way his dry voice breaks over the words.

Derek nods. This has happened before, the nightmares, but only a few times. They’ve been sharing a bed a couple times a week for the last seven months, Derek can count the sudden burst of wakefulness created by a nightmare on one hand, it’s one hand too many, he doesn’t like it. Stiles licks his lips, and nods back before he moves to throw his legs over the side of the bed, turning his back to Derek, taking the space he needs.

The slowing thud of Stiles’ heartbeat is the only sound filling Derek’s ears. It helps to slow his own heartbeat. Laying back down Derek reaches over to sneak a hand up the back of Stiles’ shirt, palm resting on his side, thumb stroking at the notches low on his spine.

Before speaking Derek lets out a deep sign, “What was the nightmare about?” He already has an idea, but talking usually helps, and Stiles can clam up after a nightmare. Silent and lost in the labyrinth of his mind, where the wheels are almost always turning. Talking allows him to cast his thoughts out and eventually reel them back in.

“The basement at Eichen House.” He takes a shaky breath before tossing a look over his shoulder and down to Derek. “I’m okay.” Flat and dry his words do nothing to convince Derek that he is. His hair is sleep messy, like always after he wakes, only he looks more disheveled than well-rested. 

“You don’t have to be.” He has said these words to Stiles before, he meant them then, and he means them now.

Stiles turns to look back out, talks into the darkness, “Yeah, how long is that good for? I keep loosing to this. It keeps taking up space, that I don’t want it to.”

“Give it time. It actually hasn’t been that long. I know you think it has, but Stiles, it hasn’t.” Derek believes his own words even if Stiles isn’t ready to. No one heals from trauma as fast as they want to, that is part of trauma itself. It took Derek a long time to comes to terms with that, tried to get around it by pushing and toeing the lines in all directions. The truth is, he was a mess when he first arrived back to Beacon Hills.

Derek rolls onto his side, letting his hand drift higher up on Stiles’ back, fingertips appreciating sleep warm skin while trying to draw the tension out of the teenager’s body.

“I think about it enough, everything that happened.It would just be nice to - you know, not dream about it too.” 

“I know.”Derek’s hand squeezes one of Stiles’ shoulders, physically communicating his understanding.

Touch. Derek can get lost in touching Stiles, or maybe he finds himself, depending on how he looks at it. There are two stories being told at the same time. He shares an intimacy with Stiles that he has never shared with anyone else. It can create an intensity between them that needs to be handle with care when it translates to sex.

The warning Derek had given to Stiles about his knot had been as much for himself as for the teenager, having an idea that he might not have the control over it he would want to. He had been right, his body made the choice for him. Knotted Stiles their first time together, panted out apologies while Stiles begged for more, told him not to stop. The pleasure had pulled the wolf out of him, eyes glowing blue as he fucked in deep and hard. Chased the scent of pleasure coming off of Stiles, like a hound chases after a hare with no other thoughts but to catch it.

This touch, now, is for comfort, will only turn into something more if that is what Stiles needs. Derek turns his hand over, lets his knuckles run down, gently knocking over every notch on Stiles’ spine.

Derek knows how strung out Stiles can get on his knot. That place where pleasure and agony share the same space, overstimulation almost always leading to a second brutal orgasm for him. The kind that leaves Stiles’ body limp afterwards, eyes glassy. It’s breeding, they both know that. Derek’s seed won’t take, it doesn’t stop his body, his instincts from treating Stiles like a mate.

Once, Peter had shown up to the loft not long after Stiles and him had finished. He had caught the unmistakable scent drenching the air, sweat, pheromones, and release.

_Unless you know something I don’t, no matter how hard you try you’re not going to be able to knock him up._

With a growl Derek had thrown Peter out, literally. There is still a dent in the hallway wall from where he hit.

The skin under Derek’s fingertips is cooling. Time can not solely be measured by numbers, the coolness of Stiles’ skin is more telling than the minutes that have passed since he has been sitting on the edge of the bed. Derek rolls forward and wraps an arm around Stiles’ chest, pulls him back into the bed, and under the covers where it it is warm, is met with little resistance and minimal flailing of limbs. 

“What do you need, Stiles?” Derek asks in a tone that says he will give Stiles anything.

Fingers tap on Derek’s arm as Stiles thinks. After a moment he cranes his neck to catch Derek’s eyes over his shoulder,“For you to have a bedside clock, you have no idea how much I wish you had one." He pause, stops talking only to make what Derek knows is a point before he continues, "Okay, but, in all seriousness, is it too early to get breakfast? Or, maybe some coffee?”

A quiet smile tugs at the corner of Derek’s mouth, he can see it reflected back at him in the warming of Stiles’ eyes, shadows from the nightmare being chased away. “Not if that’s what you want.” Derek answers.

Turning in his arms Stiles answers him with a kiss. The kiss is simple and deep. It is not designed to fill up some unmeasurable emptiness, it stands on even ground, sure of itself. Derek sinks into it, lets himself get lost, letting go in a way he has only started to know how to do. Can measure the path that led him here in all his and Stiles’ interactions. The biggest and smallest carrying equal weight. 

The shirt Stiles wears under the plaid long sleeve button down that stays unbuttoned is one of Derek’s. When he was a child, in the colder months, he can remember his mother wearing thick knit sweats that had belonged to his dad. He never thought anything of it until now. A talisman of love given and received, created out of fibers that when on their own can break all too easily, but woven together are strong.

Stiles is eighteen now, it it an arbitrary number, all those who pass it come to realize the illusion it was. The teenage years are more impactful as whole, not singled out year by year. He leaves for college next week and has only started packing in the last day. Werewolf choose for life, and Derek has made his. Someday he will tell Stiles, but not now. Past loss won’t force his hand. Derek wants Stiles to leave with all the freedom that any eighteen year old should have, their whole life stretched out before them, filled with choice of their choosing. 

Derek will spend this last week with Stiles, rescuing _borrowed_ \- stolen books from the depths of his room while he packs, carrying the heaviest boxes down to the Jeep, and answering what he imagines will be a ridiculous number of hypothetical question about their long distance relationship. There is no where else Derek would rather be, nothing else he’d rather be doing. He spent the last ten years fighting being in his own skin, and finally he feels at peace, without shame or guilt. 

The sun is rising as Stiles and Derek finish dressing. Warm orange rays spill in through the tall window, washing the remnants of uneasy wakefulness away, bringing light to another day. There is still life to be lived. Time and age are a blessing.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hopefully you enjoyed it.


End file.
